Page 35 of Not So Goode

“Not a performer, huh?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Not my thing.” Onstage, Myles finished the chorus, and moved to the middle of the stage, brought his guitar around, and launched into a dazzling solo. “Look at the fucker showing off.”

“He’s amazing. I see why Lexie loves his music.”

“He’s talented all right. What most people don’t realize is that he practices hours a day, every day. He’s got a lot of innate talent, a lot of exposure to music of all kinds, growing up on tour and onstage the way he did, but his skill with a guitar is just that—a skill. He’s not a dazzling virtuoso. Couldn’t play for shit as a kid, just had that voice. But he learned, and he practiced, and he keeps practicing. That’s why he’s so good.”

“Impressive.” I twisted to look up at him.

Didn’t know what to say, I just…it seemed surreal that I was here, side stage, watching Myles North, with a man’s arm around me. Sure, it was just because I couldn’t stay upright on my own, but still.

He glanced down at me, smirked wryly. “What?”

I looked away. “Nothing.”

He stared down. Nodded, after a moment. “Yep.”

I frowned, tilted my head. “Yeah, what?”

“Yeah, I still find you goddamn breathtaking.”

Gulp.

Beat, stupid heart. Beat, damn you. There it was, gone nuts—THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP—like the kick drum on stage.

I swallowed, barely. “Oh.”

He reached, tugged a handful of my braid, but ever so gently. “Just in case you’d forgotten.”

“Nope.”

Weird. A million thoughts were banging around in my brain, but precisely zero of them were exiting my mouth. I just couldn’t seem to manage words. Or intelligent thoughts.

And really, those million thoughts in my head were mainly—meaning entirely—focused on the odd rhythm of my heart when I was around Crow, and the way my thighs kept wanting to press together to relieve myself of the aching heat between them. And his eyes. And the way his hand had felt searing through my clothing to my skin as it rested on my shoulder, and how I wanted it back on my hip.

I must still be super-duper drunk, because I couldn’t figure out why I was so bizarrely and strongly affected by him.

It was new. I didn’t like new. I liked predictable. I liked order. I liked to-do lists and checklists and schedules. I liked knowing what to expect. I liked knowing what to feel, what to say, what to do.

I didn’t like having zero freaking clue about what I was feeling, why, or what it meant. Why did my sex ache? Why did I feel like I was empty inside? Why did I feel this inexplicable need to touch, to be touched?

This was not mere horniness, or at least not as I knew it.

This was something far, far wilder, deeper, and more dangerous.

It scared me stupid. Probably why I couldn’t form a coherent thought.

“Hey, Earth to Charlie.” He was grinning at me.

I blinked. “Um. What?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Been staring at me like I was somethin’ to eat for nearly a minute, babe. You hungry or something?”

Or something. “Uhh, sorry?”

He turned away from the stage, tugging me with him. “Maybe you oughta sit down. Not sure you’re totally with it yet.”

Hand—big, rough, strong, warm. Folding around mine, enclosing it.